


Lost and Gained

by BardofHeartDive



Series: Rise [1]
Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Colonist (Mass Effect), Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mindoir, Pre-Mass Effect 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 10:08:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11438634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BardofHeartDive/pseuds/BardofHeartDive
Summary: Anderson collects some momentos for the only survivor of the raid on Brenoux, Mindoir.





	Lost and Gained

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in Veerla's universe, which is a Reaper-less AU. (Not that it really makes a difference for this piece.)

Of the six survivors they brought up to  _ Karachi  _ for treatment only one is still alive and, as much as he hates to admit it, Anderson is grateful it’s the one he found: a teenage girl with black hair and the only purple eyes he’s ever seen. It’s not unexpected medically - her physical injuries are limited to minor cuts and bruises - but emotionally, psychologically, he’s had his concerns. Still does, he admits, looking through the window into the medbay. She is lying on her side on one of the beds, just like she has been for the past four days.

He must have lingered too long because Dr. Vanderpoel notices him through the glass. She catches his eye and puts a finger up, asking him to wait as she gets up from her desk. If her patient notices her movement she doesn’t acknowledge it. A moment later the doctor sidles up next to him. She’s not smiling but her expression is a little less haggard than it has been recently.

After a moment of watching the girl in silence, Vanderpoel says, “We know her name.”

“Already?”  

He doesn’t try to hide his surprise. All of the town was razed but official centers, like the hospital, courthouse, and police department, were completely reduced to rubble. Finding records of any kind has been a challenge. He had written off identifying a particular citizen as an impossibility.

“Masterson’s idea,” she continues. “The batarians didn’t consider the schools a priority target.”

Her omni-tool glows as she accesses a file; Anderson’s follows suit when she shares it with him.  

“Your girl is Veerla Renee Shepard. She’s a junior at Brenoux Central High. 3.8 GPA with advanced placement courses in psychology and sociology, and two years of independent study in xenolinguistics. Her disciplinary record shows she’s been in a few fights but all accounts say the other girl started them, calling her a freak because of her biotics.”

“She’s biotic?”

“So it would seem, no implant, though. Anyway. We’ve got her name and her parents’. I’ve started a search for contacts off-world but . . . ”

The look on her face tells Anderson everything he needs to know but he asks anyway, as if saying the words out loud will change the answer. “Nothing so far?”

“Not a thing, poor girl.” Vanderpoel folds her arms across her chest and shifts her weight with a sigh. “And you want to know the worst part?”

“Hmmm?”

“Her birthday was yesterday.”

 

* * *

 

The orchard around 55 Plum Street is a smouldering ruin but the outside of the house is fine except for smoke damage. The juxtaposition of the old-fashion wooden porch built against the metal alloy of the prefab is odd but would be charming were it not for the blood smeared from the open door down the steps and into the grass.

Batarian, Anderson thinks with grim satisfaction, judging by the grayish tinge to the red.

The inside of the house shows more evidence of the raid. The main room, a combined living and dining room, is a disaster. There’s blood everywhere, pooled on the floor, smeared on the banister, spattered on the walls, even on the ceiling. Every piece of furniture has been toppled and reduced to pieces; a few are partially burned. The walls are pocked with bullet marks, mostly shotgun spread, and a few of the balusters on the staircase have been pulled loose and splintered. There’s nothing salvageable here, so he moves further into the house, gingerly stepping over a smashed guitar on his way.  

The next room is an office with two desks overturned and broken. A trail of dried blood leads through it and out a shattered glass sliding door. He’ll leave that way, he decides as he starts sorting through the mess on the floor.  Most of it is uninteresting - papers, datapads, and office supplies - but there are also framed pictures, both traditional prints and holos. All of the paper ones are ruined but a few of the holos still work. He stuffs them into his rucksack, one of them flicking on as he does to display a young couple kissing in the orchard. He turns it off, waiting for the screen to go blank before adding to the bag, then continues to search the house.

A china cabinet is leaning across the doorway between the office and the kitchen. He ducks under, trying to keep it balanced but the effort is wasted. It’s been emptied, along with most of the other cabinets and drawers. The floor is covered with shattered glass and ceramic, and metal and wooden utensils. The forks, knives, and spoons are standard-issue but the chopsticks scattered in with them are nicer. He picks them out and adds them to his bag. On a shelf above the sink he finds a row of cookbooks. There’s too many to take them all so he scans through them until he finds one with the recipes written on the pages. He counts at least three different handwritings as he flips through it. 

At the top of the stairs he finds a small landing leading into a hall. One of the four bookcases is overturned but besides that it’s in perfect shape. The other three are filled with not only books but board games, puzzles, figurines, and arts and craft supplies. He’s not sure what will mean the most to her so he collects a little of everything, stopping when the bag is slightly less than half full. He still has her room and her parents’ left and he can always fill any extra space on the way out.

The first door off the hall is a bathroom. He doesn’t expect to find anything worth taking but then he notices a bottle of hand lotion by the sink. If the company is local, rather likely since the label reads “Brenoux Gardens,” this could be the last bottle she’ll ever get of it so he adds it to the bag.

Veerla’s room has been rifled through but like the landing it’s nothing compared to the lower level. Nothing valuable in a teenage girl’s room once the girl was out of it. Like the rest of the house, it’s a mix of home-made and standard-issue. The bed, for example, has a lofted, wooden frame that is flawed in a way that makes him think it was made by hand. The sheets, on the other hand, are impersonal, solid white and gray, and could pass for Alliance bedding if they had the insignia stamped on the corner. 

One step into the room and something crunches under his foot, a locket on a keychain. He picks it up and opens it without thinking. No picture displays but music starts, eight bars of classical piano that repeats until he closes it and slips it in the bag.

It feels wrong, pilfering through her room while she’s on a bed in orbit above him, so he starts with his most specific task: clothes. Dr. Vanderpoel suggested getting some “so she can wear something besides scrubs” and he brought a separate duffle just for that. He empties her underwear drawer into it without looking then picks a few outfits at random from the drawers. There are shoes in the closet, as well as a number of dresses and a fleece-lined denim jacket hanging in the very back.

He starts the search for personal mementos at her desk. It’s covered with datapads but they look like schoolwork so he leaves them alone. There are some vids and music discs, those he takes, and civilian omni-tool. An entire drawer of stationery sets and a small box filled with photographs, letters, and concert programs. A collection of postcard-sized charcoal sketches. Many of them have messages on the back but he decides not to read any of them.

Her parents’ room is in similar condition to hers, though there is a large hole in the wall, probably where a safe was cut out of it. There’s an empty jewelry box on the floor but when he kneels to pick it up he finds a pearl ring half-hidden under the bed. Besides that and a framed family portrait on the bedside table nothing stands out. Just as well because he’s about out of space in the bag.

The sun has just starting to set when Anderson leaves through the broken side door. He finds a wind chime lying in the grass near the ramp and manages to make enough room to get it into the bag as well. 

There’s also a body, the source of the blood. The smell and the flies tell him doesn’t want to investigate too thoroughly but IDing victims is part of why the team is there. He gets only as close as he needs to run the necessary scans, then uploads the information to the casualty list.  Like most of the other bodies they’ve found there’s no immediate match but given the demographics - male, 40-50 years old, approximately 6’ tall - he thinks it’s safe to assume it’s her father, Thomas Aaron Shepard.

A scuffling behind and above him startles him. He turns toward the noise, drawing his sidearm and activating the flashlight on his omni, but all he finds is two raccoons squabbling in an open attic window.  He holsters his weapon and heads back to his ATV out front.

 

* * *

 

After reporting in and a shower and chow, Anderson’s first stop is the medbay. Veerla is facing out into the room staring blankly at a filing cabinet.

“Hi, Veerla,” he says as he pulls a chair up next to her bed. “I don’t know if you remember me. My name’s David.”

She’s started making eye contact since they learned her name but she still hasn’t spoken. She only blinks but he counts it as a victory that she’s still looking at him.

“I went to your house today,” he continues. “I brought you some clothes and some other . . . things.  Want to take a look?”

He offers her the bag but her eyes have gone empty and unfocused.

“Let’s see . . . ” 

A sudden feeling of inadequacy surges over him as he examines the contents of the bag. Three lives reduced to what a stranger could fit in a single bag. It’s not enough. He almost lets his doubt get the better of him but then he looks at her. The girl has lost her family, her home, and her youth.

It isn’t enough. But it’s all she has.

“There’s a lot of pictures and a backgammon set. That’s one of my favorites if you want to play some time. And some books.” 

She looks up at that and he pulls out the first one he can get his hand on, a collection of Japanese fairy tales. She actually reaches for it when he offers it to her, traces her fingers over the cover, then takes it with both hands. Clutching it to her chest she rolls away from him, effectively ending the interaction. He sets the bag on the bed behind her and starts to leave.

If the room were not completely silent he would have missed her quiet, “Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This narrowly escaped being named "Untitled Mindoir Real-AU Story." I'm still undecided if that would have been better . . .


End file.
